


Out of the Woods

by ConsultingHound



Series: Magic AU [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, But not really anymore, But only a little, Case Fic, Establish Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Magic AU, OC's - Freeform, University, silly stuff, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:28:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingHound/pseuds/ConsultingHound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year after the Moriarty's fall and Sherlock and John are settling into University and their new relationship. However, both meet problems along the way which threaten to stretch them to breaking point, not to mention the lure of a new case which will reveal more than either expects.  Will the boys get their happily ever after?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Things were going _fantastically_. 

Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever been happier in fact.  University had given him a freedom he hadn’t experienced before, given him the space to do what he wanted so long as he completed the necessary deadline pieces, which surprisingly, were sometimes interesting.  Another plus was that he could keep an indistinct schedule, sometimes appearing in lectures, sometimes electing not to go, making it easier to evade Mycroft’s constant interference.  This, along with his ever increasing knowledge of London’s backstreets and alleyways, provided a working map of both respectable and not so respectable areas that he could access for his own purposes such as his increasing desire to actually be allowed onto a human crime scene. 

This however, was a progression on his old way of life.  Something new though, was the acquisition of a _friend_.  Mycroft had always encouraged interactions with others he deemed ‘suitable’ for Sherlock to be friends with; usually the children of government officials or bank managers, people who would have influence in due course.  The entire idea appeared to be centred on making business contacts rather than true friends.

Victor Trevor would definitely be deemed _not_ ‘suitable’.  Sherlock, of course, liked him almost immediately.  They had met relatively normally, in a Chemistry lecture.  Sherlock had purposefully settled himself away from other people, in the top right of the lecture hall, closest to one of the doors _(in order to study them better_ , he justified to himself, _not because he was nervous, no, what was there to be nervous about_ ).  One thing he hadn’t factored in was latecomers.  It was 10 minutes into the lecture when Sherlock noticed a slight breeze tickling his ear.  Curious, he risked a peripheral glance and saw that the door behind him was being gently pushed open.  The lecturer, thankfully, seemed blissfully unaware and kept wittering on but Sherlock turned himself slightly so that he had a good view of the door, without drawing too much attention to it.  The door hovered between open and closed for a few seconds.  A head popped round.  Sherlock took a quick assessment.  _Male.  Same age as self.  Brunette hair, worn styled with a fringe that is popular in style but with grey hat.  Another style element or hasn’t had time to wash hair?  Not enough data.  Light brown skin, pale green eyes.  Tattoos visible under long sleeved top of left arm.  Rebellious.  Doesn’t seem nervous.  Must be a habit.  Typical student.  Moving this way.  Oh bugger._ The unnamed boy slid into room while the lecturer fiddled with his laptop, crouched down, half-ran to the unoccupied chair next to Sherlock and sat down and grabbed a pen out of his pocket, creating a look of casual innocence.  When the lecturer looked up, he did a double take, scowled at the boy as if unsure whether he’d been there all the time ( _to which the boy smiled, fingers poised to write as if waiting for more information_ ) and nervously carried on while questioning his own sanity.  The boy noticed Sherlock’s respectful gaze and grinned, before retrieving a battered looking notebook, scribbled something and turned it to Sherlock. 

 _Victor Trevor_ , it said, in an untidy scrawl.

 _Sherlock Holmes,_ he wrote back, his writing much the same. 

Since that first lecturer the boys had sat next to each other in most of the lectures and practicals, exchanging notes if they couldn’t talk.  Victor lived with his family in an area of London that wasn’t too bad but not terribly great either.  Both his parents were veterinarians and he had an older sister who was a waitress and a younger sister still in high school.  Much more importantly to Sherlock however, was the fact that Victor enjoyed mysteries and not the stupid ones that were on TV all the time, but actual mysteries that happened to actual people.  None of the people Mycroft had picked would talk to him about mysteries.  Victor therefore reinforced Sherlock’s view that the other people were idiots and so was Mycroft. 

However, their first meeting outside of class was less ordinary than their original one. 

Sherlock had been running away from a very upset, burly man who had not been terribly happy about Sherlock deducing him in front of all his friends ( _it was only fair_ , Sherlock would later reason, _he was rude to me_ ) and, while diving through the alleyways, he accidentally hurtled straight into someone else.  It was Victor. 

“Sherlock?” Victor said, just as Sherlock said in the same confused tone, “Victor?”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock insisted.  Victor made to reply but was interrupted by Sherlock’s pursuer appearing at the end of the alleyway.

“Oy!  Come here you-”

“Larry?” Victor looked behind Sherlock’s shoulder and sighed, “Oh for God’s sake, just go home.”

The man spluttered, “But, he”, he stabbed a finger in Sherlock’s direction, “and in front of”, he pointed in the direction they’d just run from. 

“Now you’re just embarrassing yourself.  Sherlock’s a friend,” Victor dismissed with a little wave.  “You can’t tell me what to do,” Larry said stubbornly. 

“Yes I can and you know I can so it’d be better for all of us if you just went back to the pub and forget this ever happened,” Victor dismissed and, to Sherlock’s surprise, the man huffed and walked back the way he’d came, taking time to glare at Sherlock before doing so. 

“Sorry about that,” Victor smiled, turning back to Sherlock, “Not my favourite relative but you can’t have everything can you?”

“You were related to him?” Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock as he tried to find some similarity between the two men. 

“Sort of.  He’s married to my cousin who lives near to us so I see him all the time.  He’s not too bad once you know him well enough but up until that point he’s kind of a dick.”

“Yes, I noticed that,” Sherlock said and Victor grinned.  “So you know what I was doing here but what about you?”

Victor’s grin only grew wider.  “Oh, you know, just adventuring.  Care to join?”

Sherlock was about to agree but, upon checking the time, realised he was supposed to be in a meeting with a professor who wasn’t deathly dull.  “Would love to but I have somewhere else I need to be.  Maybe next time?” 

“Sounds great.  Oh and if you’re looking for something other to do than being chased down alleyways, there’s a party on Saturday, supposedly _everyone’s_ going,” Victor said, air-quoting the everyone, “You should come along, might be fun.” 

Sherlock frowned.  Party’s weren’t exactly his thing, too loud, too many people, too much input, but this was Victor and Victor had said he was a friend and friends go to parties their friends invite them too, _right_? 

“Um, sure, I’ll see if I can go,” he tried to smile in a way that conveyed something close to interest.  Thank god he’d had a lot of practice at it. 

Thus it had started, not only a friendship but also the parties and social events that went with being someone’s friend.  That was how he was identified anyway, a conversation always starting with “Oh, you’re Sherlock right? Victor’s friend?”  

Most surprisingly, Sherlock found he sometimes enjoyed himself.  The music was abhorrent, of course, and the amount of people sometimes overwhelming but under a mix of adrenaline and alcohol (perhaps sometimes too much alcohol), Sherlock found it easier to ignore his brain’s deconstruction of everyone’s personal lives and simply relax.  He hadn’t brought John to an event yet, unclear about the social acceptability of plus-ones inviting other plus-ones but he would, at some point, once he found out.  Also once he found out how to navigate these social situations without offending someone (which he still somehow managed to achieve).  He didn’t want John thinking he was an idiot. 

John was, of course, the most fantastic thing about his new life.  _His_ John.  His perfect, intriguing John, who thought he was brilliant and didn’t think he observation skills were weird or annoying or any of the countless adjectives used to describe it.  His brave John who had decided that, after everything that happened last year, he would become a human doctor, using his old skills from his Healing days with his new found interest in human biology.  Best of all, was the fact that after a year of being either under the same roof as both Sherlock’s relatives, or agonising miles apart due to Sherlock needing to go back to school ( _something he had fought with everything he had until John pointed out that if he didn’t go he wouldn’t be able to finish his A-Levels meaning they’d have to spend even more time with his family_ ), now it was just them, together.  Sherlock would never admit it, to anyone, _ever,_ but some of his favourite moments were not, as everyone always suspected, filled with imminent danger, but the quiet ones, the ones with John absentmindedly running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair while they watched telly or when he would spy John, accidentally asleep in his chair and Sherlock would look at him and feel his heart squeeze ( _ludicrous thought_ ) and he would smile, the one smile that he saved for John, the one that was his alone. 

Often when he was drowsing between sleep and wake, not yet awake enough to pretend to be above emotions but not dreaming either, Sherlock thought of all the moments since the start of term, thought of the way his life was almost perfect now.  Yes, things were pretty fantastic indeed. 

 

***

 

Things were decidedly _not_ fantastic. 

There were good things, things that John tried to recite to himself every time he felt like hitting his head against a wall ( _which was often_ ) and, of course, things could be worse.  For example, at least he was no longer in danger of being abducted by Moriarty and made to do his bidding for the rest of his life.  At least things were better than that.  However, there were some things that made him feel...unsettled. 

Life with Sherlock was amazing at times, the erratic unscheduled chaos being reminiscent of his time on the force and making his body hum with adrenaline.  However, sometimes all John wanted was some peace and quiet, something he rarely got with Sherlock around.  Now though, Sherlock as going off out every five minutes with his new set of friends and John couldn’t help but loathe the silence around him, too still, too quiet.  It reminded him of his time with Sherlock at school and, when it got really bad, life without Sherlock altogether.  Also, he couldn’t help feeling possessive.  Sherlock was his, everyone else could back off and leave them alone.  At times he felt more of a flatmate than a partner.  John never mentioned this to Sherlock though.  Whenever he tried to, all he could think about was the lonely boy trekking through the woods or the boy that had spent most of his time skipping school to avoid other people and who hadn’t mentioned a single friend in the history of them being together.  Then John felt guilty.  Who was he to try and demand Sherlock give up something which clearly made him happy, just so they could spend a few more hours together doing much the same as they had before?  Although Sherlock would never admit it, John had quickly worked out all Sherlock wanted _(and to some extent needed_ ) was a friend, someone on the outside to rely on.  John had to admit he still wasn’t exactly _human_ and so having another person, or people, around was a good thing for both of them.  Didn’t mean he had to enjoy it though. 

The _not-quite human_ aspect was another _not good_ thing.  After the ‘Fall’ of Moriarty, as people were calling it, he had wondered if he was a fully fledged human.  His wings were gone and for a few days he couldn’t perform any magic whatsoever.  However, a small bit had gradually returned, the odd spell here and there, mostly healing ones but he had nowhere near his old powers.  This meant learning _a lot_ about the human lifestyle, all about light bulbs and ovens and all the rest of it and all had to be learnt quickly so as not to arouse the suspicion of Sherlock’s mother or, more importantly, his brother.  It didn’t help that he’d also decided that he wanted to be a doctor which meant learning everything about human biology he could find ( _most of it was surprisingly similar minus the wings and magical properties_ ) and Sherlock insisted he learn some Chemistry as well.  His brain felt like it was 2 seconds away from exploding from the sheer volume of information stuck in there.

It wasn’t that John couldn’t see some benefits to the human life. 

Tv for example.  Apparently it had been quite a surprise when both Sherlock and Mycroft had lost track of John, leading to lots of yelling, accusations of kidnapping and a two-person man hunt, only to find him curled up on the sofa, watching an old spy movie. 

“Are there actually people like this in real life?” John had questioned as Sherlock joined him after slamming the door in Mycroft’s face.  He sat on the floor with his back to the sofa, resting his head on the cushions so he was watching John rather than the film

“It’s possible but most people don’t get to blow up secret underground bases on a regular basis.”

“Only you?” John had teased and Sherlock had smiled at him.

“Well everyone has to have a hobby.”

Now John spent most of his free time flicking through the channels, either finding something he genuinely wanted to watch while Sherlock was out or, if Sherlock was in, something he would like to see torn apart. 

He thought of this and other times when he was at his worse, reminded himself of how much he adored Sherlock, how much they'd worked to make this possible, reminded himself that it was all worth it.  That didn’t stop the nightmares though, the very real panic as his brain supplied images of what Moriarty would have done to him, his friends, to Sherlock-.  It was at this point he normally woke up, the sight of those pale eyes staring blankly at him, lifeless still imprinted into his mind until he could find the real Sherlock again, either curled up next to him or out in the living room playing his violin, alive and breathing.  

He told himself he was still adjusting and processing, even a year later, and with the upheaval of moving _again_ , he was trying to see where he fit into this new world.  The worry was what if he didn’t fit at all?


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey, Sherlock, wait up!”

Sherlock stopped just outside the library building’s doors and turned to see a familiar brunette grinning and jogging towards. 

“Hello Victor,” he smiled as Victor caught up and they began walking towards the main road. 

“Hey.  You should think of a career in the secret service you know.  I saw you back in the library, looked down for two seconds to grab my phone and then you were gone.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “It’s not my fault you see-”

“But do not observe, yada yada,” Victor cut in. “I fully understood the first time, felt the second time was a little unnecessary, and by now I’ve lost count and feel like the words are forever ingrained into my mind.  I bet if you opened my head up those words would be patterned into my skull.”

“Well at least you’ll prove to be an interesting study when you’re dead.  May I be the first to call dibs?” Sherlock mused. 

“And there’s that morbid sense of humour I know and am slightly scared by.  Now I need to ask you for a favour that’ll employ those great observational skills but will also help me with a little problem I’ve got.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, sensing that something was off with Victor’s manner.  He wasn’t exactly tense but when contrasted with his usual laid-back posture, the effect was still quite large.  His eyes were also flickering, assessing the people surrounding them and it was starting to put Sherlock on edge.  This problem, whatever it was, was clearly bothering Victor a great deal. 

“I’m listening” he said, intrigued. 

Victor made a more overt display of checking around him, the leaned in so that only Sherlock could hear.  His voice dropped and turned serious.  It had the startling effect of making Victor seem much older than his 18 years. “Look, I’ll explain more about it later, I just wanted to know if you were interested in an actual case.  I don’t know if the police know about it yet but I want someone looking into it that I know I can trust.  Oh-” his voice changed back to its usual, casual tone, accompanied by his habitual grin “and Jasmine’s having a party on Friday, just the usual crowd.  She asked me to invite you.  You in?” Victor raised his eyebrow, implying he wasn’t just talking about the party. 

Sherlock relaxed when Victor did, although he was aching to ask for more details on the case.  His mind was rebelling at the teaser, wanting facts, wanting _data_.  “Yes,” he replied to both questions.  “Would Jasmine mind if I brought John?” he added hurriedly, before he could over-think it.  If he began doing that he wouldn’t ask and he’d be back to square 1 again. 

Victor pretended to look shocked.  “Does this mean what I think it means?  Might we finally get to meet the illusive, enigmatic John?  The John we’ve heard of so much about but have never seen?  We were beginning to think he was a myth you know,” he nudged Sherlock playfully in the shoulder.  Of course you can bring him.  I’m surprised I haven’t already met him to be honest, the amount you talk about him.”   Sherlock felt himself blush.  He didn’t think he talked about John _that_ much, although most of his stories did revolve around him.  John was the most interesting thing in his life and you were supposed to talk about things that interested you, right?  “Anyway my besotted friend, I am going this way so I will see you later,” Victor said, turning to go left. 

Sherlock nodded and gave a half wave as he took the path to the right, towards home. 

An ‘actual case’ as Victor put it.

He couldn’t wait to tell John. 

***

When Sherlock bounded up the stairs to the flat everything was still and quiet, as if he was the only person in the building.  This was clearly not the case however; evidence of John was everywhere, in his jacket still hung up on the peg, his books still stacked neatly by his chair, the half-full tea mug on the coffee table.  The only thing missing from the picture was John. 

Sherlock ran through possible options: either 1) John was downstairs with Mrs Hudson (unlikely, he would have heard them as he walked in), 2) John had been kidnapped by either his brother (highly likely) or, 3) John was upstairs which meant that John was hiding or upset (unknown likelihood). 

Clearly it was Mycroft. 

However, before Sherlock could send a very inappropriate text explaining, in detail, why it was rude to kidnap one’s brother’s boyfriend, there was a creak from upstairs.  Grey eyes flickered upwards.  So hiding then.  He scowled.  What purpose could John have in hiding?

That was all Sherlock’s mind could supply when he rounded the corner to be confronted by the kitchen.  The kitchen which was looking newly cleaned.   The kitchen that was devoid of all experiments and equipment left there only hours before. 

Sherlock stood in the kitchen doorway for a few seconds and took a deep breath.  Then he turned and _calmly_ went up the stairs.  He _calmly_ knocked on the door and said in _a very calm voice_ “John.  John open the door.

Then-

“No.”

“John-” Sherlock warned.  (What he didn’t realise was that this was the same voice everyone had used on him at least once and so couldn’t relish the idea of being on the opposite end of this conversation.) 

“No.  My room, my rules, that’s what we agreed on.”

“John, be reasonable.”

John laughed, “Can I get that in writing?  Sherlock Holmes talking about being reasonable.”

“John this isn’t funny.  What happened to the kitchen?”

The laughing stopped. 

“John.  An answer.  Now.”

“It was Mrs Hudson,” was the short reply. 

Sherlock thudded his head against the door and huffed a sigh.

Mrs Hudson, their beloved landlady, was brilliant in many ways: she gave them reasonable rent, supplied the boys with enough baked goods to feed the British Army, didn’t complain too violently about the odd hours Sherlock seemed to keep and had a past so interesting and diverse that even Sherlock conceded he may never fully understand every aspect of it.  There was, however, a problem.  Mrs Hudson loved looking after ‘her boys’, as she called them, and had apparently taken it upon herself to ensure the flat remained clean, if not tidy.  John didn’t mind this so much as the only disturbance to his day was that he had to hunt in more cupboards for things (and often found they were in a much better place than before and so left them there) but for Sherlock, Mrs Hudson’s help was a source of never ending frustration.  Papers were moved, dust disturbed, his favourite mug had gone missing on several occasions (“ _It’s getting cracked dear.”  “I don’t care, give it back.”_ ) and, of course, his experiments, his precious, possibly ground-breaking experiments, were all destroyed in the process.  After this had happened one too many times, Sherlock had an epic strop ( _which he would deny by saying it was a protest_ actually) which he only ended after he had reassurances that John would head-off any attempt by Mrs Hudson to move, dust, empty, bleach or in any way touch or change his experiments without Sherlock’s explicit consent.  John had done valiantly in this effort for several weeks now and a truce of sorts had seemed to be issued.  Until today. 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was hesitant.  Sherlock presumed most people would be if they’d just heard a thud and nothing else. 

“John, open the door.” 

Finally John opened it. 

Sherlock couldn’t help the feeling of pride when he looked into to what once was the upstairs bedroom but was now a veritable mini-forest.  Perhaps it was because he knew it made John happy, which in turn meant that Sherlock made John happy by creating the room itself.  He squashed this feeling however when he realised he should still be annoyed and so switched back to his scowl.  John was stood blocking the doorway, his big, round eyes and jumper making him look the picture of innocence. 

“It wasn’t my fault you know,” he said defiantly.

“John you’ve been in all day, how can you not notice someone walking in and rearranging the flat?” Sherlock asked, exasperated.  (Once again Sherlock didn’t realise this was the exact emotion of every person who had ever tried to get _him_ to confess something). 

John sighed.  “Well, actually I had to go out and buy milk because we ran out.  Then when I came back it was,” he gestured downstairs, “I think she set it all up though so that she could sneak in without me knowing and then you’d be mad at me for leaving rather than her for cleaning.”

Sherlock stared at him.  What was John talking about?  “Explain your reasoning for this theory.”

John looked excited.  “Originally I thought we’d run out of milk because _someone_ forgot to buy some but then I remembered that you did actually buy some yesterday as an apology for nearly ruining my notes.  So that means it was nearly a full bottle and it’s highly unlikely that we used an entire bottle on 2 cups of tea, meaning either you used it in an experiment yesterday without telling me _or_ someone had to have taken it.  Now this is where I used your very own ‘powers of observation’.  If you had used the bottle in an experiment it would either be lying about near your science equipment to use later or, less likely, in the bin.  It wasn’t in either so clearly you didn’t use it and that leaves us with someone stealing it.  So someone with access and a motive, leading me to think Mrs Hudson stole our milk so I would have to go outside the flat, giving her enough time to clean the kitchen without me being able to stop her.  Good eh?”  John finished his monologue with a triumphant smile. Sherlock stood gaping at him for a second. 

“John, think logically for a minute.  Are you seriously suggesting that our _landlady_ crept into the flat at some point today to steal our milk in order to set up this entire situation just so she could clean- Actually, thinking about it that does sound possible,” Sherlock scowled again, this time confused. 

“I know!  Crazy huh?  So, as you will see, this is not my fault.  Also I want a compliment on my deduction skills.  And you haven’t said hello yet,” John smiled, secretly adoring the look of confusion on his boyfriends face. 

“So demanding,” Sherlock smiled and ducked his head to press a kiss to John’s lips.  “Hello John,” he whispered against his lip, drawing his head back but keeping John in a hug. 

“Hello,” John replied, beaming.

“So how long did it take to construct your theory?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

“Err, a while.  It’s not as easy as you make it look,” was the reluctant reply, John giving a bashful smile. 

“And how long have you been hiding upstairs?” 

John blushed.  “A while longer?  As soon as I’d figured out what had happened I knew you’d be livid so I thought I’d camp out up here until you’d calmed down a bit.  Thought you might assume I was out.” 

“And yet you left evidence all around the flat.”

“Yeah, well I should know better than to try and hide from Sherlock Holmes.”

“Indeed.  I guess I’ll have to have a talk with Mrs Hudson to verify your story and to tell her to leave my things alone.  _Again_ ,” Sherlock sighed.  His brother probably had cameras set up too so they’d have video evidence. 

“Still, it’s nice to have a kitchen where we don’t have to worry about biohazards,” John suggested.

“Oh John, it’s as if you expect it to stay that way,” Sherlock grinned, let go of John and launched himself down the stairs.  A few minutes later John heard crashing and the clinking of glasses. 

Well, it was nice for a bit anyway, John thought as he went to go see what his mad genius was up to now. 

***

It wasn’t until much later that Sherlock remembered he had news. 

He finished up his current experiment, carefully ensured none of the mess on the table was likely to either be uncontrollably toxic or explode ( _contrary to popular belief he did have a sliver of self preservation, plus there was John to think about_ ) and left the kitchen in search of John.  Luckily he didn’t have to go far as John was perched on the sofa, jotting down notes from a scarily large textbook ( _Sherlock recognised it as the thing he had been using as a side table/ coaster for a number of weeks)_.  John’s face was scrunched up in his usual ‘concentrating’ face and Sherlock felt a rush of fondness which he quickly smothered before John could look up and see it.  Sherlock couldn’t quite understand why he felt the need to do this but assume it was part of some reflex he hadn’t been able to shake off yet.  He’d spent so long controlling his emotions, crafting them to work to his advantage and to never show weakness, that it was still difficult to simply let them express themselves without filter. 

John’s concentration was obviously broken when Sherlock climbed up onto the other end of the sofa and crawled until he was curled up in John’s lap, his legs stretching across the rest of the cushions. 

“Sherlock, I was trying to read that,” he complained, though his voice betrayed his fond tone.  Sherlock took this as permission to remain where he was, snuggling further into John’s chest.

“Bored.”

“Kitchen destroyed?” John asked, wrapping one arm around Sherlock and using it to manoeuvre him so he could both cuddle ( _although Sherlock would never ever concede to call it cuddling_ ) and take notes at the same time, though at a much reduced pace.

“Completely,” Sherlock said with some pride.  It had taken less time than he thought to return the kitchen to its previous state of distress.  Mrs Hudson was going to be livid. 

John, on the other hand, chuckled and pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s hair and they remained quiet for a while before Sherlock remembered what he had come into the room for in the first place. 

“Victor’s got a case for me,” he said with a smile.

“Oh, that’s good of him.  What’s it about?” John replied in what he hoped was a neutral tone.  After all a case was always better than no case, never mind who it had come from. 

“He wouldn’t tell me.  Seems like its sensitive information, probably from close family or friends, though it’s useless to speculate without more data,” Sherlock answered, annoyed.  Patience had never been his strong suit.  “Oh and there was something about a party as well, this Friday I believe.  We’re both invited if you want to go,” he added on, almost as an afterthought.  That was how people invited others to parties, wasn’t it?  By acting nonchalant?  He inwardly cursed his lack of knowledge; how was he supposed to impress John without a proper basis of information? 

“Would you like me to go?” John sounded utterly casual.  What Sherlock could not hear however was John’s internal debate about whether Sherlock actually did want him to go or was just asking out of politeness?  What if Sherlock was embarrassed by him?  John knew, in the abstract, that he wasn’t _bad_ looking but it was obvious he was nowhere near Sherlock’s level of beauty that even Sherlock himself must have noticed and oh god, all of Sherlock’s friends were going to be there and-

John’s inner crisis was cut short by Sherlock’s abrupt, “Of course I want you to go.  Well, only if you want to of course,” he quickly added, remembering he was supposed to be acting casual, though he feared he may have broken that pretence.

John laughed, squeezing the arm that was around Sherlock in an adaptation of a hug.  “I’d love to go.  Maybe I’ll get to know your friends a bit better yeah?  See what you get up to on all these night’s out.”  Look, he was being supportive and everything. 

“Nothing spectacular I should warn you now but I’m sure we’ll have a good time,” Sherlock smiled up at him, the one, rare, genuine smile that betrayed his happiness. 

He stayed where he was in John’s lap, surprisingly comfortable and before he knew it, his eyelids grew heavier, his breathing levelled out and he was asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only quickly read through so if there are any glaring mistakes please drop us a comment and I hope you enjoyed this chapter :) Thought I would change up the usual guilty Sherlock, exasperated John dynamic- did it work?!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry about the delay on this chapter. Last week got a little crazy and so here's an extra long chapter to say sorry about that (plus actual case work!). On the other hand, it was my birthday last Friday so I'm finally 18 which in England means it's time to party :P 
> 
> If you see any glaring mistakes that is because I suck at grammar and any constructive criticism is really appreciated if you see any plot holes forming. Have a good week and hopefully I'll have another chapter up soon :)

_He was running._

_He didn’t know why it seemed imperative to run but it was.  Slowly a feeling began creeping up on him, stealing over his body.  The feeling that he was being followed, like ice sliding down his neck, was compelling him to run faster, only he heard no footsteps and saw no shadows.  It was just a feeling yet he knew he was right._

_He was in the forest, his forest, surrounded on all sides by trees which should have felt like home but instead felt like a labyrinth, a snare, a spider’s web._

_He had to get out._

_He had to keep on running._

_It was getting more and more difficult to breath, like all the oxygen was receding.  He wanted to slow down but he couldn’t. His legs and his fear wouldn’t let him._

_Then heard the scream._

_It was an indistinct noise, far away and back the way he’d just run from.  Probably a trick of the wind, he would have reasoned normally.  But he knew, as soon as he heard it that it was Sherlock._

_He turned and tore back the other way but the proceeding silence meant he was running blind with no hint to where Sherlock was, no way of knowing if he was moving in the right direction.  He felt like he was running in circles.  His head began to spin._

_He began falling._

_Clear as day, a voice came to him, but it was not the voice he wanted.  A face was before him but it was not the face he wanted.  It was the face that was haunting him.  The face he was running from._

_“Hello John.  Miss me?”_

                          

John woke with a start, mid-fall of the sofa.  He caught himself but the force sent a jolt of pain up his left arm.  Moriarty’s voice was still ringing in his ears.  He closed his eyes.  _It wasn’t real.  It was a dream.  Not real.  Just a dream.  Not real._  

He sucked in a breath, counted to 4 and then let it back out again.  When he opened his eyes again, they immediately locked with Sherlock’s, who was staring at him from his chair, clearly concerned.  Sherlock appeared to be frozen, half hanging out of his chair, as if to come over and comfort, but he hadn’t made the journey across the room, as if he was afraid he would be unwelcome, as if John would push him away. 

“John,” Sherlock began hesitantly which had the effect of making John feel even worse.  Sherlock sounded scared.  Sherlock, who would run after criminals, jump over buildings, had gone and fought Moriarty without even knowing what had happened.  Yet he, John Watson, was scaring Sherlock and for what?  His own failure to let go of Moriarty was simultaneously hurting himself and Sherlock and that needed to stop.  Sherlock was better than that.  _But he couldn’t tell him about the dream.  That would just make everything worse._

“I’m fine.  Just a bad dream,” he said in an approximation of his normal voice, even attempting a swift smile.  He rolled himself off of the sofa, stood up and walked to the bathroom.  He felt clammy, the residue of both sweat and sleep clinging to him and trapping him back in the dream. 

“John,” Sherlock called after him but he didn’t stop. 

“Seriously I’m fine.  I’m going to take a shower, okay?”  He didn’t bother waiting for a reply. 

Avoiding looking in the mirror, he shrugged off his jumper and t-shirt, noticing absently that he was growing a slight tummy in his new student lifestyle.  But that was a problem for another day.  He turned on the shower, allowing the room to steam up before he took of the rest of his clothes and could safely put them in the hamper next to the sink without his own reflection staring back at him. 

“John,” Sherlock said through the door.  John sighed. 

“Yeah Sherlock?” 

Sherlock seemed to hesitate.  “I’m going out now.  I said I’d go look at this case for Victor.”  John heard the hidden question in his words. 

_Do you need me to stay?  I can if you need me too._

“Okay, have fun.  I’ll see you later then?”

 _No, I’ll be fine love_. 

John couldn’t say it didn’t hurt a little that Sherlock didn’t want his help on the case but it was probably for the best.  He felt weak again, as if he’d suffered a physical blow.  Once again, he was too fragile to be relied upon.

“Okay,” Sherlock paused but John could still feel his presence behind the door.  “I love you.”

John couldn’t hold back a small smile. 

“Love you too.”

Sherlock walked away and John climbed into the comfort of the shower.

***

Sherlock arrived outside the block of flats, his mind still distracted with the events of earlier.  It was clear John was trying to hide his nightmares but why Sherlock didn’t know.  He didn’t understand how he was supposed to help if John didn’t let him in but for now, he would respect John’s wishes to leave him alone.  It hurt slightly but clearly John wouldn’t want to go on the case, especially not just after a stressful night’s sleep.  John hadn’t shown an abundance of enthusiasm about the case anyway.  However he’d be fine by himself.  At least that’s what Sherlock kept on telling himself. 

Victor was already waiting for him, leaning against a broken phone box outside the building.  The area felt vaguely abandoned, with several of the shops either shut or in need of refurbishment.  Litter was scattered across the cracked pavement and the sound of sirens was never far away as if the place was in a permanent state of emergency.  Victor didn’t seem to fit in with the image.  Crimes however, did. 

“Hey,” Victor said, walking up to him but his face dropped into a worried look.  “You okay?”

No. “Yes.” 

Victor didn’t look convinced so Sherlock quickly changed the subject.

“You said you had a case, give me no details and then leave a voicemail with nothing but an address and time.  I’m starting to feel like I’m in one of the awful spy movies John insists on watching.”  Victor smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes.  Still worried then. 

“Yeah well it was you who was late.  We’re in there,” he nodded over to the graffiti covered door of the building. 

“Do you want me to break in?” Sherlock asked as they stood there, reaching into his coat pocket for the lock-picking kit ( _“For emergencies obviously,” he’d exasperatedly explained when John asked after they’d accidentally locked themselves out of the flat_ ).

“Sherlock we’re trying to solve a crime, not create one,” Victor teased, while patiently watching the door.  Sherlock relaxed next to him, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.  The few people on the street seemed to rush past, barely glancing at the two teenagers hanging around.  After a while, a boy rounded the corner of the street, about their age but a few inches shorter, dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie.  He’d walked up to the door and opened it before turning to Victor. 

“You coming in or what?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but Victor just smirked at him.  They followed the mystery boy up to the 3rd floor and through the corridor.  The inside matched the outside in its run-down atmosphere.  The lack of working lights darkened the hallway, giving the impression that it was the dead of night, rather than mid-morning. 

Both Victor and the other boy stopped outside flat number 16 and turned to look at him.  Sherlock had the quick, panic driven thought that he had misjudged Victor entirely and was about to get either kidnapped or murdered. 

“Right, here should be safe enough,” the boy said. 

Oh god, he _was_ going to get murdered. 

“Okay,” Victor said, looking slightly more relaxed, “Sherlock, meet Oli.  Oli, this is Sherlock, the guy I told you about.” 

Oli simply nodded, seeming relaxed.  Sherlock was not. 

“Now before you go in, all you need to know is that this is what the flat normally looks like,” Victor said, producing some photos.  The image of the inside the single room flat showed that it was basic but as clean.  The living area would be first upon entering the door, the kitchen on the left and the bedroom, obstructed by a screen, directly behind.  The bathroom was separate but more of a cupboard than a room, a shower squished in as an afterthought.  No clutter was evident on the windowsills or on the floor, the pale blue bedspread was neatly made and the kitchen looked as if it was rarely used for fear of disturbing its rigid order.  There were only small hints that the flat was lived in at all, a few photo frames dotted around, shoes by the door, a toothbrush by the sink.

Sherlock looked back at Victor, a question on his lips but Victor shook his head, holding up a hand.  Then Oli swung the door in, allowing Sherlock an unobstructed view.  If he hadn’t been told it was the same flat, he wouldn’t have believed it.  The flat was a mess.  The sofa and table in the living area were overturned, books and papers spilled out of a cabinet, the old TV lay smashed on the floor.  The kitchen was a disaster zone of broken mugs, pans and cutlery spilled on the floor and countertops, cupboards open but empty as their contents lay strewn across every surface.  The screen had been pulled down and the bedroom was in a similar state, with clothes concealing most of the floor like a ragged carpet.  The bathroom seemed the least damaged but this may have been only because there was little room to destroy. 

“Explain.” Sherlock asked when he reappeared.  Both Victor and Oli seemed reluctant to step too far into the room, looking around warily as if the assailant was still inside and would attack at any moment.

“Pretty obvious isn’t it?” Oli muttered.  Victor nudged him with an elbow. 

“Our friend Jake lives here.  Well used to anyway.  2 days ago he came home from work to find this, went straight over to stay at Oli’s.  There was no note, no message, nothing.  I told him you might be able to help us find out who did this and why,” Victor explained. 

“Where is Jake now?” Sherlock asked.  He’d need to question the man himself. 

“At work.  He said he didn’t want to come back anyway.  Feels like he’s being watched.  They wiped the CCTV feed so that’s useless, before you ask.” 

Sherlock simply hummed at him. 

“You got anything?” Oli demanded after a few minute silence. 

“It obvious Jake knows who they work for which meand Jake is trying to hide something.  I need to find out what before this can go any further.”

“What?” Oli and Victor said in unison.  Sherlock heaved his ‘I’m surrounded by idiots’ sigh. 

“Why do all this” Sherlock gestured around him, “and not leave a message?  Some indication of why they did this?  It’s clearly not a random attack; they don’t appear to have taken anything of value so it’s not a burglary.  Conclusion: Jake knows his attackers so they didn’t need to leave a message.  He already knows what they want but is reluctant to give in.  Therefore he’s running.”

“The why doesn’t Jake just call the police on them?” Victor asked.  

“They wiped the CCTV.  All they have is Jake’s word against theirs.  A teenager living in this area, the police aren’t likely to listen.  But even if they did, they must have something to use against Jake, something he’s done to provoke this.”  But what?  Or perhaps something _was_ missing, something important and that’s why Jake had run? 

“I need to speak to Jake.  Now.”

***

They only had to go 2 streets away to find the cafe where Jake was working.  As it was on a slightly busier road, they entered just as a mid-morning rush was occurring and so they went to sit at a table and wait. 

Sherlock took the time to observe Jake.  Medium height, slightly longer hair than average but nothing extravagant, innocent-looking brown eyes, pleasant to the customers but there was a shy resistance to small talk.  In other words there were no distinctive traits that would lead anyone to assume his life was in imminent danger.  Perhaps this was simply his natural state or possibly by design.  After all it was much easier to move around when you knew people would forget you after a few weeks.  It was obvious he’d moved to the flat recently and, with his few possessions, it wasn’t a giant leap to imagine he’d moved around before.  The question was why he had to move around in the first place. 

Jake walked over while Sherlock was still contemplating a few ideas, measuring up their likelihood against the sparse evidence he had.  He couldn’t dismiss any of them just yet but hopefully that was about to change. 

“So, who is trying to threaten you?  And don’t bothering saying you have no idea, everyone has enemies of one kind or another,” Sherlock asked directly after Jake had sat down and Victor had introduced them.  Jake gaped at Sherlock, turning to Victor who nodded in confirmation that, yes, he was always like this. 

“But I thought that was why you were getting involved, so you could find out for us,” Jake protested. 

“That was your original excuse of course.  But answer me this, why would you choose to trust a 19 year old you’ve never met to investigate this when all instincts should be telling you to talk to the police?”  Jake floundered, looking like he was about to bolt from the table.  “Answer, you have something to hide which would be as incriminating to you as it would be to your attackers and so, to hopefully distract your friends from worrying, you agree to let their inspiring detective friend to have a look round while simultaneously knowing they wouldn’t find anything.  But I’m not what you were expecting and if you carry on, your friends and family will be the next targets and that certainly will get the police’s attention.  So let me ask you again, who is trying to threaten you?”  Sherlock finished his monologue with more emphasis, as if the power of his voice could physically force the words into the others thick skull.  Jake had visibly paled with dawning comprehension of just how screwed over he was.  Victor and Oli looked shocked. 

“Titan Industries.  Building Developers.  But I’m not doing it for me, I swear,” Jake exclaimed. 

“What are you doing exactly?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  He’d heard the name before but was having trouble placing it. 

Jake glanced round and then leant in, whispering hurriedly. “They’re going to destroy Brecknell Lane, targeting the old social centre.  They say it’s to create more offices but others said they’d done this before.  What they actually end up doing is building huge flats like the one I lived in where there’s no room and essentially screw everyone over in the process.  That social centre’s the only thing left but it’s important.  It’s the only part of the community that’s left.  If they destroy it, there’ll be nothing left and we need more space, not more people.  So I’m persuading them to leave my street alone.” 

“You’re blackmailing them,” Sherlock stated, with sudden clarity. 

“Jake!” Oli shouted, looking horrified.

“Look, keep your voice down.  People could hear you,” Jake panicked. 

“What the bloody hell are you thinking, messing around with people like _that_ ,” Oli hissed.

“What are you blackmailing them with?” Sherlock asked, curious.  This case was certainly looking more interesting. 

“It’s not _that_ difficult to find stuff.  Well, when you find the right people to help you.”

“People?”

“People with experience in stuff like this.  They were going to get to them before they’d even started work but they didn’t have enough evidence by that time.  I’d rather not say names; don’t want them on my tail as well.”  Sherlock decided against pushing the point; there were other questions which were decidedly more pressing. 

“So which backer is trying to get to you?”

Jake shrugged.  “Could be any of them.  That’s partly why I agreed to let you look.  I thought if you were as good as Victor said you were then you could help us pinpoint who it is.”

Sherlock felt like sighing at his naivety.  It would be admirable if it wasn’t so stupid. 

“Jake you’re not seriously going to keep up with this?”  Oli was looking at his friend as if he’d never seen him before.  Victor was remaining strangely silent but looked vaguely sick.  Jake remained silent, playing with the napkins on the table, shredding them up. 

“I’ll offer you a deal.  I’ll find out who your mystery backer is and prevent them from attacking you further _, if_ you promise to discontinue this one man crusade to personally ruin your future.”  Jake looked ready to protest but Sherlock spoke over him.  “If you continue with this, once those people you blackmailed realise they are being coerced by a 19 year old, if they don’t know already, they will bring you to the ground and crush you as if you were an insignificant bug, which to them you are.  They already know where you used to live, it wouldn’t be difficult to find you again or to find your family.  Your social centre is doomed; even if you succeed in this endeavour, there will always be someone else willing to take their place and they are going to get harder and harder to push around.  A better use of your time would be finding some legal ground to prevent them from destroying it, which you would have thought of, had you not wasted your brain cells on watching action dramas and spy movies.  Now agree and give me a list of names.”  Sherlock finished imperiously, producing a pen from his pocket.  Jake looked between Oli and Victor and, upon finding them both glaring at him, sighed in defeat. 

“Fine,” he said, grabbing the pen and scribbling down a few names.  “Now I’ve got to get back to work.”  With that he strode off towards to the kitchens and disappeared. 

“You’re going to have to involve the police aren’t you?” Victor finally spoke. 

“Of course, but it’s no good telling him that.  Why he thought this was a good plan in the first place is beyond me,” Sherlock muttered, his eyes already flicking down the short list.

“Well he’s always been a bit of a vigilante type has Jake.  Thinks he’s bloody Robin Hood,” Oli said, sounding bitter.  Sherlock glanced up.  Bitter about being left out rather than being shocked at crime element.  He’d have to tell Victor to get better friends.  He went back to his list.  Not many noticeable names but a few would certainly be big news.  His eyes hit the last name.

He stopped.  

He recoiled. 

“Sherlock, you okay?” Victor’s voice sounded concerned but Sherlock couldn’t turn to look at him.  All he could see was that name written in Jake’s neat print. 

It couldn’t be.  It just couldn’t and yet it couldn’t be anyone else. 

He returned to reality with Victor shaking his arm, looking worried.  “Hey, what happened?  What’s wrong?” 

“Yes, fine.  I’m going to need to do some research, I’ll contact you if I find anything.  Look after your friend.  He’s going to need it when reality hits him.”  Sherlock stood up slightly too quickly to be entirely natural and left.  He could feel Victor and Oli’s stares but he chose to ignore them.  Victor would blame it on the case.  Oli didn’t know him well enough to disagree. 

Sherlock thought of the last name. 

It was time to get in contact with his brother. 


	4. Chapter 4

When John got out of the shower he still didn’t feel right.  He knew outwardly he appeared to be his usual self but inside he still felt on edge, as if he was back in the forest on a night Patrol rather than in his own bathroom at 10 in the morning.  What was even more unnerving was he could feel his senses struggling to respond, trying to listen and see on a level his new human senses couldn’t reach.  This only served to make him tenser as his brain recognised this as wrong and began to search for the cause, battling against whatever spells were masking his eyes and ears.  But there wasn’t anything to find.  This was what he was now and there was nothing he could do to reverse it ( _and he’d tried, oh had he tried but there was nothing anyone could do, no counter spell, no medicine, nothing_ ).

So John did what he always did when his mind tricked him. 

He ignored it.

Trying to carry on as normal was a lot less easy in practice than it was in theory but luckily ( _or unluckily depending on how you look as it_ ), John felt he was something of an expert at compartmentalising his problems.  These symptoms, as John took to thinking of them, were nothing he hadn’t seen before.  After he had been discharged from his Defender team, he had spent most of his time in a state of constant hyper vigilance, even in sleep, no sound too small, no movement too insignificant.  It was exhausting and it wasn’t until he’d been forced by Molly to join the Healer community that he finally found some peace.  That was, until Sherlock came along with his own brand of observation and Mori- _He_ came back and suddenly, rather than being a nuisance, his awareness became an advantage.  Now, without any immediate danger, he was stuck between peace and chaos on a near constant basis and it felt like going back to square 1. 

John scrubbed a hand over his face.  No point thinking about all that now.  Maybe later.  Maybe never.

He sighed for what felt like the fortieth time that morning and went to go get dressed and make breakfast.  He pointedly did _not_ notice the way the silence served to make his actions seem much too loud in the emptiness of the flat, making him feel like a caged animal, feel like he had to run.  

No, he definitely didn’t notice any of that.  The fact that he switched the radio on was just a coincidence.  The inane chatter of the DJ and the comforting smell of tea and toast almost made him feel as if he was back in his old home, in his own, little kitchen that he really should have renovated but never got round to, with its window that overlooked the pile of grass he called a garden ( _his mother would have despaired, she always loved gardening_ ). 

He was brought back from his nostalgia by 3 things: 1) the racquet emitting from the radio which the DJ had the audacity to call a song, 2) the fact that, instead of a garden, his new kitchen window overlooked the dirty alleyway behind the building and 3) he had just put his hand in _something_ and whatever it was John was fairly sure he wouldn’t have had it lying about on his old kitchen work surfaces.  Unless it was jam.  Perhaps it was jam.  But how was he supposed to know?  He had his hand halfway towards his mouth to solve his conundrum with a taste-test before realising just how stupid of an idea that was; especially as he had no idea what Sherlock had been working with the other day. 

Gods he needed to talk to some being that wasn’t Sherlock; his boyfriend’s love of answers and lack of self preservation were clearly transferring into his own personality. 

This was how John found himself ringing the only person who could talk some sense into him. 

“Hello.  Lestrade’s house, Molly speaking.”

“Molly?  Hi, it’s John, I was wondering if Greg was in?”  John almost smiled at Molly’s nervous introduction; it was nice to know that some things hadn’t changed. 

“Oh Hi!” Molly answered, sounding much happier.  “Yeah, I’ll just go get him for you.  How are you anyway?”  John could hear her movements through the phone. 

“I’m good thanks.  What about you?  I see things with Greg are going well,” he teased. 

“Yes, well, they are.  Good I mean.  Very good even.  I’m really very happy actually,” Molly said, sounding both flustered and shy but still meaning every stumbled word. 

“I’m really glad to hear that Molls.  You deserve it, you really do,” John said with sincerity.  He did think that Greg and Molly made a very good and sweet couple, although he often questioned why it took them so long to get together. 

“Aw thank you!  How are you and Sherlock?  Is he still leaving body parts in the fridge?” 

“Yeah, I think I’ve accepted that one.”  ( _John secretly believed Molly only asked to ensure the body parts were being stored at a correct temperature, rather than for hygienic reasons_ ) “We’re,” _complicated? Intense_? “good.  You know, still working things out but good.” 

“So long as you’re happy John, that’s all that we care about.  Ah, here he is, I’ll just pass you over.”

John waited awkwardly listening to the indistinct voices on the other end of the line and decided to go sit in his chair rather than leaning against the countertop. 

“John?  It’s been a while.  Thought you’d forgotten about us,” Greg said but without venom.  His usually weary voice (caused mainly by the fact he was surrounded by problems both at work and at home) had undergone a change recently, no doubt thanks to a certain Miss Hooper, and now sounded lighter, as if he’d realised everything wasn’t quite so bad after all. 

“Well I did try but it seems like your stupid face is burned into my memory so I thought I might as well keep up appearances and ring,” John shot back, instantly settling back into their conversational pattern. 

“Tosser.  Though because you remember me, I expect a birthday present this year.  Unlike last year.  You know, when you forgot.”

“Oh come on that was one time!” John protested. 

“And yet it still hurts that you forgot.”

John heaved a melodramatic sigh which he felt even Sherlock would have been impressed by.  “Fine.  I promise not to forget your birthday present.”

“It has to be given on my actual birthday as well you know.”

“Well now you’re just pushing your luck.  Anyway Sherlock helped you get with Molly and I’m the one that started seeing Sherlock so by proxy I helped you get yourself a girlfriend so there.  That was your birthday present last year.” 

“Wait no hang on right-”

What followed was a 20 minute argument about who was responsible for whose relationships, both present and past until both conceded that perhaps maybe, just maybe, they were even. 

While mid-argument about whether Stacey actually counted as a relationship or not ( _John saying yes totally counts, Greg saying no way_ ), John had to stop himself from sighing in relief.  This was what he’d been missing.  Sherlock was amazing but it was difficult to keep up with his rapid fire mind sometimes and to actually talk openly with him.  With his new classmates, he didn’t know any of the well enough to go and talk to them, never mind the fact they had no idea he wasn’t 100% human.  All he needed was a friend who understood where he had come from and what he was trying to say without him even needing to say it.  Of course, with his luck, it just so happened that that person happened to be many miles away and only reachable at certain times due to both their schedules being taken over by either work or university but you couldn’t have everything.  John felt this understanding of one another was emphasised when Greg switched from joking about John’s old crushes to a very serious:

“So what’s wrong then?”

John paused to let his brain catch up before saying “Nothing.  Everything’s...good.”

“No, you see, John Watson doesn’t say things are ‘good’.  Things can be fine, things can be brilliant, things can be okay, things can be terrible.  Never simply good.  So when you use the word ‘good’, you know what I think?  I think, John Watson is hiding something that is bothering him which is slowly eating him up inside until he’s too emotionally constipated to talk to anyone.  That is what is happening when you use the word good.”

“That’s how you see me?  Really?” John said, not only trying to deflect the rather on-point question but also partially curious.

“Stop avoiding the question.  What’s wrong with you?”

“You know, sometimes, I hate the fact that you are a good Defender,” John muttered, angry that he couldn’t hide his inner turmoil. 

“John,” Greg said warningly. 

“It’s nothing.  Seriously.  Just been having nightmares again, that’s all.” John tried to make it sound casual, hoping Greg would leave it. 

Greg didn’t leave it. 

“It’s about him isn’t it?”  Greg’s voice was carefully neutral but John could still hear the anger buried underneath. 

“Yeah.  Similar stuff to last time, few new things.”

“What new things?”

“Sherlock’s in them this time.” 

Greg made a low, sympathetic sound.  “John, I’m sorry.  That, well, that sucks.  There’s no other, intelligent way to put it.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” John huffed, leaning back further into his chair, as if it could absorb him. 

“How’re you coping with it?”

“I’m fine, it’s nothing I haven’t had to deal with before.  Just wish they wouldn’t happen sometimes.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Not really.  Just hoping they go the same way they did last time.” 

“You’ve talked to Sherlock about them right?” 

There was an awkward silence from the other end. 

“John,” Greg said in his ‘I am now going to tell you just how stupid you are’ voice.  Unnervingly Sherlock also had a similar voice but he used it with everyone. 

“Look, what am I supposed to say?  ‘Hey Sherlock, so, weird thing but I dreamt you were horribly tortured by a dead madman.  Pass the sugar.’  Not exactly the best morning conversation I’ve ever had,” John let out a breath.  “I can’t put that sort of pressure on him Greg, not now that he’s finally happy with his life.  He’s got his classes, and his friends, and a case, and _Victor_...”  John felt his temper rising and his heart beat quickening as if he was panicking.  Oh gods was he going to have a panic attack?

“John, just breathe for us okay?  Deep breaths.  It’s all going to be fine.  Now tell me, who is Victor and why haven’t I heard about him before?” 

John frowned at the sudden detour in conversation.  “Victor and Sherlock are best friends.  Been practically joined at the hip since they met.” 

“Ah, so you’re jealous,” Greg concluded.

“I’m not jealous!  I’ve never even met him.  For all I know, he could be one of Sherlock’s experiments in human nature.”  Apart from he wasn’t, John was sure of that, but Greg didn’t know that and the less he appeared jealous the better.  Because he wasn’t.  Not really.  Just a little bit. 

“Now you see, to me John, despite your convincing words, your tone of voice still screams jealous and can’t deal with it.  And that’s fine.  Just give this Victor guy a chance.  He is Sherlock’s friend after all and I’m sure that even if he does have a new person to hang out with, Sherlock still loves you just the same.”

“Yeah I know.  Thanks Greg,” John reluctantly conceded.

“Ah, it’s no problem.  All you have to do is admit that I’m better at you and then we’re even.” 

“Shut up.  Your advice is rubbish, I’m thanking you for confirming that you’re a sappy idiot.”

“And on that insult I have to go.  Take care John and don’t forget to call us more.  We want to hear all about your fancy London life.”

“I will try to, I promise.”

“And John?  If you have another nightmare, either tell Sherlock or call me.  You don’t have to do this alone mate.”

“Thanks Greg.  Seriously.  Talk to you later.”

 

***

_The Diogenes Club:_

 

“Sherlock, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need you to look at this.”

“Asking for my help.  Are we ill?”

“I have no time for games Mycroft.  Last name specific.”

“Ah.”

“Is it him?”

“Where did you get this from?”

“Client.”

“And why did your ‘client’ give you these names?”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to work that out.  Now answer my question.”

“Yes.  It’s him.”

“...”

“Sherlock?”

“Thinking.  That’s all I needed from you.  I’m going to need that back.”

“I am correct in thinking that if I point out I don’t think this is a good idea you won’t listen?”

“You are.”

“Sherlock, promise me you will be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“Sherlock.”

“I will be as safe as possible.”

“If you need anything more, you know where to find me.”

“Goodbye Mycroft.”

“Good luck, dearest brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. I don't know what to say other than these past few weeks have been crazy, plus I kind of lost my inspiration for a bit so that's why it's taken so long for this to be written. It will be finished though, I swear! I feel a lot more like writing now so hopefully the next chapter won't be too long behind this one. I'm aiming to finish it before I start Uni in late September so fingers crossed! Hope you like this chapter and please if there's any mistakes or constructive criticisms please tell me! They help so much.


	5. Chapter 5

John stood scowling at his section of the wardrobe.  At the peril of sounding like a melodramatic teenager, he had absolutely _nothing_ to wear. 

Well, that wasn’t strictly true.  There might be something in here to wear.  On the other hand, the stuff he would normally wear on a night out with his friends might not be what he should wear in front of Sherlock’s friends.  Surely they couldn’t all dress in tailored shirts and suit jackets, could they?  Could they?  Whatever, next to Sherlock he was likely to pale into insignificance anyway, a direct counterpoint to his tall, monochrome aloofness. 

“Wear the plaid shirt, the one with the ¾ sleeve with some jeans.  It’s a party, not a catwalk.” 

John realised he should be more concerned with the fact that Sherlock could deduce him without even being in the same room but he was too busy being grateful that the decision being taken out of his hands.  He changed quickly, checked his freshly washed hair and overall appearance in the mirror.

“Go on then, how did you get that one?” he called in the living room’s general direction, pausing to fix a tuft of hair that was reluctant to lie flat. 

“You got out of the shower 10 minutes ago but there were no noises indicating you were getting changed.  Also you were muttering quite loudly and the walls are thin.”  The flat tone suggested Sherlock was on the cusp of his Mind Palace, not quite enveloped yet but not all together tethered in reality. 

“I don’t think that really counts then- Sherlock!”  John, having wrangled the piece of hair into submission, had walked out of their bedroom, only to be faced by his beloved lying prone on the sofa, still in his pyjamas.  “Sherlock?  You are still coming out yes?”

“Yes, of course I am John,” Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively.

“Don’t you think you should get dressed then?  Or is it a pyjama party and you forgot to tell me?”

Sherlock opened his eyes, mouth open as if to argue, but under John’s pointed glare he glanced down.  He looked shocked as if only just realising he wasn’t magically dressed and groomed.  He snapped his mouth shut, making a conceding grunt and rolled himself off the sofa before stalking into the bathroom.  John sighed, though he wasn’t actually annoyed.  If he allowed himself to be irritated every time this happened, he would be in a near permanent state of exasperation which was too exhausting to even think about.  That being said, John was still worried about his budding detective. 

Last night, Sherlock had returned at 3pm, just after John had got in from the library, and thrown himself into his pyjamas and onto the sofa.  He had remained there near constantly ever since, only getting up for the bathroom or to pace manically for a few minutes before returning to his position on the sofa.  John had managed to get him to eat some toast earlier and, from the amount of half-filled mugs squished on the coffee table, he had been getting some liquids so that was something at least.  For the first few hours he hadn’t spoken at all.  Now he was replying to simple questions but still wouldn’t answer questions about the case or what was troubling him.  John could only hope that the party would allow Sherlock to relax a bit and work through whatever was bothering him. 

***

On the way over John’s fears only grew.  Sherlock was quiet while they walked (John refused to get taxi’s unless absolutely necessary- they weren’t made of money).  John hoped he’d become more sociable once he was surrounded by his friends, otherwise this was going to get very awkward, very quickly.  Unless, of course, his new friends knew of his habit to recede into his own mind.  It wasn’t like he, John, would know if they knew.  He mentally shook himself.  Gods, he had to get a grip, these people were probably lovely.  Probably. 

He let Sherlock lead the way into one of the self-catered halls near campus and up to a door on the second floor.  A petite girl with stick-straight, vivid red hair, made even more bright by her pale complexion _(_ This made John worry all Sherlock’s friends would look as vampiric as the man himself _)_ opened it and she immediately beamed at Sherlock. 

“Ah, you’re here!” she squealed, immediately drawing him into a slightly awkward hug given their height difference.  “Loads of us are already here but I’ve invited some others so find a spot where you can.  And you must be John!  Hi, I’m Jasmine,” she said politely, holding a hand out. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” he replied, equally politely.  Jasmine’s smile was rather infectious and it was difficult to fight the urge to beam right back at her, despite not knowing anything about her _(he could hear his mind-Sherlock snorting at this, claiming he simply wasn’t being observant enough_ ).  Jasmine quickly shepherded them through the door into a tiny hallway, leading into a communal living room where most of the crowd were gathered.  Someone had put on some music but most people were either seated on the sofas and floor or stood, all chatting and laughing.  There was a table in the far corner that was plied with drinks and John was suddenly very thankful he remembered to bring some beer with him, even though Sherlock made no mention of taking anything ( _considering Sherlock nearly didn’t get dressed, John didn’t mention this_ ).  They dumped their coats in a bedroom—turned-store cupboard for the evening and then went to go join the group.  John was pleased to note that Sherlock had dropped his meditative attitude and was quick to join in conversations.  However, as his worry about Sherlock receded, he became acutely aware of how awkward he felt.  Sherlock had stayed with him for approximately the time it took for both of them to get a drink before he was called over to one of the sofas to join in an argument.  Although Sherlock stated he would be right back, as time began to tick by John began to doubt he would see Sherlock again unless he actively went to find him. 

Jasmine, clearly seeing him floundering, bounced up to him and began introducing him to people, often with the title ‘Sherlock’s John’.  This intro often caused people to pause and do a quick, silent assessment of him from head-to-toe.  After the fourth time, Jasmine seemed to clock his confusion and laughed.  “They’re just curious is all.  We’ve all been dying to meet the ever mysterious John,” she teased.  He wondered what they were thinking when they looked at him.  Was he what they were expecting?  Probably not.  Did they like him?  That remained to be seen.  Most people made nice small talk with him but then again they did that with every person.  The only person he’d conversed with properly all day was Jasmine, and he wasn’t sure whether this was because she genuinely liked him, pitied him, or just didn’t want him ruining her party by being grouchy. 

The doorbell rang.  “You going to be okay for a bit?” she asked, obviously trying to be caring and not condescending.  Maybe she did like him and he was being paranoid.  It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll look after him,” another female voice said from behind them and Jasmine ran off to answer the now insistent knocking at the door. 

“Kate,” he spun round with a smile, pleased he recognised someone.  Kate Nixon was one of the few people his own age in his course and they’d become at least acquaintances, if not friends.  Her dark skin highlighted her pale eyes which she emphasised even more with carefully chosen make-up, she had a penchant for purple jewellery and accessories and was quietly competent in her work with an excellent bedside manner.  John liked her. 

“Hello Watson, _(she never called him John, stating that Watson suited him more)_.  What brings you here?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” he joked, “I’m _meant_ to be here with my boyfriend, although he appears to have run off somewhere, as always.  What about you?” 

“I wish you luck finding him in this lot,” she gestured to the amount of people currently packed into the room, “As for me, I live across the hall so it was either stay up all night with the noise or join in creating it.” 

They talk for a while, about the party, about classes, about the people around them.  Kate introduced him to Mark who lived next door to her and John reluctantly agreed that perhaps he was being overly anxious about this socialising lark and was, however reluctantly, having a good time. 

That is, until he went to get another drink. 

The table had been decimated by this point, covered in a sticky residue caused by one too many spilt drinks and it’s difficult to find anything worth drinking.  It was while he was searching that he overheard a conversation held by two girls who were quite clearly tipsy if not fully drunk, each using the wall to support them and gossiping.  He wouldn’t have paid them any attention had they not mentioned Sherlock.

“Okay, ask me another one, ask me another.”

“Alright.  Who would you...set up with Sherlock?”  John froze.  He didn’t want to hear the answer but his feet were unwilling to co-operate with his brain.

“Ooh, that s’easy.”

“Well go on then.”

“Duh, Victor.  They’re like so cute together and they like the same stuff and yeah, it’s just obvious.  And look at them, they’re like together already.”

Suddenly John’s feet were willing to co-operate but only to turn him so he could follow the direction the girl’s where looking towards.  He didn’t hear another bit of their conversation.  He didn’t hear anything in fact.  All he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat because there, on one of those stupid, squishy sofas, was Sherlock- _his_ Sherlock- was slumped against a person who could only be Victor _bloody_ Trevor, his head resting on Trevor’s shoulder, Trevor’s arm outstretched on the back of the sofa round Sherlock’s shoulders looking for all the world like a happy little couple and the most annoying thing, the thing that made John’s vision turn red, was the fact that no one had even reacted.  No one cared.  It was like John was the only one who realised how wrong this was, as if the fact Sherlock was going out with someone else didn’t matter to them, as if it was insignificant so long as they were a ‘cute couple’. 

Well fine. 

They wouldn’t care if he just left then would they.  John spun round and stormed towards the bedroom, grabbing his coat. 

“John?”  Oh yeah, Kate.  John had completely forgotten that he was only supposed to be getting a drink and returning to a conversation.  Kate looked concerned.  “You leaving?”

“Yeah, I’m just-I’m just going to go.  I hope you have a nice night,” he attempted to keep his voice steady.  Judging by Kate’s expression he wasn’t doing so well on that front. 

“Okay, are you sure? I mean-”

“Yeah I’m pretty sure.  See you later.”  John didn’t wait to hear her reply.  He pushed his way through the crowd in both the living room and hallway. 

The door swung shut with a barely audible ‘click’ behind him. 

***

 

Sherlock cracked an eye open. 

Head pounding, nausea, dry throat, there could only be one explanation.  Hangover.  God he was never drinking again. 

Never ever.

Ever.

This wasn’t his bedroom.  This wasn’t even a bedroom.  It was a living room.  But not his living room.  Where the hell was he? 

“Morning sleepyhead,” a grumbled voice said in his general direction.  Sherlock tried to get his eyes to focus.  It was difficult with one of his eyes covered by a cushion.  The form of Jasmine sprawled on the opposite sofa merged into view.  He attempted to say “I feel like I’m dying.”  What actually came out of his mouth was “nugh.”  

Jasmine laughed.  “Yeah that sounds about right.”

“EresJwn?”

“What?”

He cleared his throat but his voice still came out hoarse.  “Where’s John?”

“Errr,” Jasmine said, looking around as if John would magically appear.  “I don’t know.  Where’d you last see him?”

“He’s not lost keys Jas.  He doesn’t remain in one place if you leave him there.”  Although she may have a point; where had he last seen John?  To Sherlock’s despair, thinking hurt.  A lot. 

“Look, honey, don’t over reach yourself.  Maybe he just went home.”

“Without me?”  Even though his voice was muffled by the cushions, he still managed to sound hurt by this idea. 

“Maybe he thought you’d already left.”

Sherlock let out an irritated “Hnnnnnnn” at such a suggestion.  He wouldn’t leave John behind.  Unlike John apparently. 

“Also when you’ve finished drooling all over my sofa, you can help me clean up.”

“Hnnnnnnnnn.” 

“No, no backing out.  You sleep on my sofa, you owe me.”

“I will only agree if you speak quieter.  My brain can’t handle your pitch right now.”

***

 

Sherlock would never admit it but it was slightly more difficult than usual to walk the 20 minutes home.  It wasn’t his fault.  It was the pavement’s fault.  It kept moving.  So did the stairs.  So did the lock on the door. Also the other stairs.  The world was off today.

He finally stumbled ( _gracefully_ ) through the door and into a very still living room.  He couldn’t work out why the stillness was important but it was as if something was missing. 

“John?”

“Johnnnn?”

Where the hell was he? 

Kitchen?  No.  Bedroom?  No.  Upstairs? 

“John, you can’t hide forever,” he called as he started upstairs.  John better appreciate this, stairs were not easy when every step felt slightly like he was going to throw up. 

However, much to Sherlock’s surprise, John wasn’t upstairs either.  Which meant John wasn’t in the flat.  Which meant John was missing. 

 

_John was missing._

Ring John.  Perhaps he’d just stepped out for something.  There was no need to panic.  Absolutely no need at all.  Not panicking. 

Phone Call Number 1:

“Hello, the number you’ve rung is not available at this moment.  Please leave a message after the tone.”  Sherlock tried this 5 times until he gave up. 

Phone Call Number 2:

“Sherlock what do you want?  I do actually have a job you know.”

“Lestrade John is missing.”

“Explain.”

“We went out yesterday, I haven’t seen him since and he’s not answering his phone.”

“Okay.”

“Is that it?”

“I’m just thinking!  Have you rung him?”

“No, I’ve been calling into the void instead.  Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Sherlock, calm down.  I’ll try and get in touch with him, you should go and look in all the places John’s likely to go.  But first you need to tell me what you did.”

“What I did?” 

“Yes.”

“I’ve done nothing.”

“I’ve known John longer than you have and he wouldn’t just disappear unless something was wrong.  So what did you do?”

“Nothing!”

“Fine, let’s find John and he can tell me instead.  Rally your big brother, Mycroft isn’t it?  He’ll probably be able to find him no time.”

“I’m not asking for my brother’s help.”

“So why ask for mine?”

“I don’t despise you with my entire being.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment.  I’ll talk to you later.”

Phone Call Number 3:

“Victor, I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only 1 more chapter to go! :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many months ago, I made a promise to myself I would finish this fic. Come hell or high water this fic would be written, no matter how long it took me.  
> And so here it is. Finally.  
> It's unedited and it may feel a little rushed in terms of wrapping things up but it's finished and if you've got any questions about it, ask or I've made some glaring errors, please tell me.  
> Thank you for reading and sticking by this fic and I hope you enjoy the ending :) x

Victor Trevor was going to kill John Watson. 

He was hung-over, sleep deprived, had a million other things to be doing but no, he was awake at 9-bloody-am, wandering around Regent’s-bloody-Park looking for a runaway- bloody- boyfriend. 

When Sherlock had first rung he was annoyed but unsurprised considering the other boy’s social graces.  It wasn’t the first time and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last but _god damn it was irritating_.  However, when his friend’s panicked voice spoke over the line, hurrying over a brief description which basically amounted to ‘John gone, need help’.  Then Sherlock had instructed him to look round Regent’s Park and promptly hung up with a quick thank you.  It was this thank you that had been the most worrying of all and was the thing that had Victor rolling out of bed and running over to the nearest bus stop. 

The puzzle that had kept Victor occupied while he wandered around the freezing cold park was why.  Why had he disappeared?  He’d been acting a bit odd at yesterday’s party (well, what Victor could remember of the party anyway) and Sherlock had lost him for a while until he was spotted chatting to another group of people.  Between then and now Sherlock had somehow managed to lose his beloved and was now frantically running around with a search size the area of the entirety of London.  Now if you asked Victor, John had probably either a) gone out for something or b) was passed out on someone else’s floor but as a good friend here he was, wandering round a freezing park and-

Maybe Sherlock was onto something.  John Watson looked like he hadn’t slept.  He was slumped on a bench, clutching a to-go coffee, hair ruffled, still in the clothes he was in yesterday and was a general mess. 

Victor didn’t quite know what to do at this point.  He hadn’t been expecting to actually find him so this was something of a surprise.  Luckily John spotted him while he had paused in his indecision and was making his way towards him.  Unluckily, John looked pissed off.  Like really pissed off.  Victor felt the urge to run even though he was fairly certain he’d done nothing wrong.  Oh God he was right in front of him. 

“Good morning John.”  Casual.  Keep it casual. 

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s not illegal to go for a walk is it?”  He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t just telling him the truth.

“You live a tube ride away.”

“I fancied coming here instead.” 

“Stop lying to me.  Just stop.”  John glowered at him.

Victor sighed.  “Sherlock sent me.  He was worried.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why was he worried?”

“Wh-” Victor was perplexed. “Why wouldn’t he be worried?  You up and leave without telling him and then don’t come back?  Anything could’ve happened.”

“Surprised he noticed me leaving.  Seemed to be pretty happy with you from what I saw,” John said, his jaw twitching. 

The pieces began to slot together in Victor’s mind and he did not like the picture that was beginning to see.  “What do you think is going on here?” 

“I don’t know.  Maybe you could tell me.”

Victor was just about the bloody well tell him what was going on when, in a blur of coat and hair, Sherlock rounded the corner only to freeze at the sight before him.

“John.”  Victor winced.  How could one voice contain so much relief, so much happiness when it was tainted with so much hurt that it sounded broken?  Hell, John had only been missing for one morning; Victor couldn’t imagine what would happen if something worse was to ever happen. 

John swung round instinctively at the sound of his name so Victor couldn’t see his expression as he stared at the child-like Sherlock, long coat partially covering the jumper he swore he would never wear and his jeans from yesterday thrown on in a rush, hair rumpled and a face that bore the signs of a mild hangover. 

“He found you,” Sherlock said, breaking the long pause.  John just nodded.  This interaction seemed to satisfy Sherlock however as he strode forward.  Victor took this as his cue to give the two some privacy and sneaked behind a group of bushes, just so he could keep an eye on proceedings, without intruding. 

***

_They’d found him.  He was safe.  So safe.  Nothing bad had happened.  It was okay._

Sherlock kept repeating these to himself as he walked the few steps it took to stand before John.  His first instinct was to bury his face into John’s neck, to wrap his arms around him, to feel himself become enwrapped in his John, to feel the reassurance of his touch, his voice. 

John’s eyes stopped him.  His eyes looked wary, with a hint of anger underneath ( _hands clenching, bad sign, think, think_ ) but it was the tiniest hint of relief he noticed, in the slight fall of John’s shoulders, in the way he slumped ever so slightly after hearing Sherlock’s voice, that’s what kept Sherlock speaking. 

“You weren’t there.”  Sherlock didn’t say it as an accusation, it was merely a statement of fact, a request for a why. 

“Yeah, well neither were you.”  Sherlock tilted his head to the left.  John debated something, opening and then closing his mouth before his expression cleared into a blank mask.

“Tell me what’s going on with you and Victor.”

“Me and Victor?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“Yes, you and Victor, and don’t you bloody lie to me Sherlock Holmes, otherwise I swear I will,” John couldn’t finish his sentence before frustration got the better of him. 

“Nothing is going on between me and Victor.  John, how could you even think-”

“Because you left me no other choice!  All the time, every day, all I hear is about how you and Victor had a wonderful time that day and what great adventures you’re going on tomorrow, and oh look you’ve got another party to go too together and who do you take along to your first ever crime scene?  How can _you_ not see it, you that tells everyone in the goddamn universe to simply look closer?”

Sherlock stood shocked.  That was a ridiculous assumption, a complete misreading of the facts, totally and utterly incorrect and worst of all _he could see just how he’d forced John into believing it_.  Sure there were times when he and John were what his 17 year old self would have called disgustingly domestic but recently, yes, he’d been busy and the case and his work had been distracting him.  But he had to put this right somehow.

“John.  There is nothing between me and Victor.  I can see how you might think that but I swear I don’t think I can or will ever feel for anyone the way I feel about you.  I love you, plain and simple as it is to say.  And yes I did just say that,” he added, noticing John’s shocked expression.  “All I talk about sometimes is you.  My friends set up a drinking game around it.  They even had to complicate the rules because simply taking a shot every time I mentioned you would have given them all alcohol poisoning.  I’m mad about you.  I’m sorry I haven’t shown it recently but I was worried about you.”

“Worried about me?”  It was John’s turn to tilt his head in confusion. 

“Of course I was worried.  After everything we went through last year, after you literally had to leave everything behind, you think I don’t worry?  I suppose I didn’t want to overwhelm you before you’d found your feet.  I did not realise you would feel left out, an oversight I won’t be making again.  I don’t know how to say I’m sorry enough.” 

“So nothing’s going on with Victor?” John was still frowning but he no longer looked angry. 

“No,” Sherlock said, his shoulders dropping.  He felt drained. 

“And you were trying to protect me?  To look after me?”

“Always.”

Sherlock could see John deliberating.  He could only stand and hope what he said was enough.  He didn’t know what he’d do if it wasn’t. 

“Sherlock, I am so sorry.”

“Why are _you_ sorry?” 

“I just accused you of cheating when I should have known that isn’t you.  _At all_.  That’s a bit not good.” 

“When have we ever been good?”  Sherlock said with a smirk.  He had never heard anything as sweet as John’s laugh. 

“Forgiven?” John said, his lips twitching into a hopeful smile. 

“Only if you forgive me.”

John answered by lifting his hands up to pull Sherlock into a forceful kiss, one hand cupping the nape of his neck, the other sliding into his hair.  They both pulled back quickly though.

“Well that was-”

“Gross?” Sherlock supplied

“Yeah.  Think we both need to clean up a bit before we do much else.”

Sherlock was just about the suggest they head back home when Victor appeared from around the corner.  One sweep and Sherlock knew something was wrong.  Very wrong. 

“Sherlock, sorry to jump in but Jake’s been attacked.” 

“Who’s Jake?” John asked. 

“Case.  I’ll explain on the way,” Sherlock replied, mind kicking back into action. 

“On the way?”

“On the way to the scene.  If you’re coming that is?” Sherlock hurriedly added.  John liked options.  Had to remember to keep asking. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” John smiled and Sherlock felt himself replying. 

“Off we go then,” Sherlock turned to Victor.

***

“You go in, try to get to Jake if you can.  John and I need to go deal with something.”

“What?” Victor and John asked simultaneously. 

“Trust me.  It’s relevant to the case I assure you.”

Victor scowled at both of them for a minute but then launched himself out the taxi all the same, muttering angrilyas he went.  Sherlock gave the driver another address and then settled back in his seat.

“I can tell you’re trying to avoid my sceptical look.  Acknowledge it.” John stared until Sherlock glanced at him.

“Tell me what’s going on.  Why aren’t we going to question Jake?” 

Sherlock allowed himself a smirk.  John looked puzzled and Sherlock watched the cogs turning in his brain a while before replying. 

“We’re headed towards Jake’s attacker.”

“Wait what?  Then what’s Victor doing talking to Jake?” John glanced back at the rapidly disappearing hospital. 

“Satisfying his need to check on his friend and keeping out of the way.” 

“What so we can go play hero?” John asked, trying (and failing) to look serious. 

“I felt that was implied,” Sherlock said, turning his head to hide his own smile. 

Oh this was going to be fun.

***

The taxi pulled up outside a posh office building, its exterior mainly glass reflecting the image of the opposing skyscraper.  John felt acutely aware of just how scruffy he looked as several heads turned towards the two teens.  He followed behind Sherlock as they strode through the standard, modern reception, past the curved lines of the front desk and glass coffee tables and straight towards the elevators. 

“Sherlock are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he said as he shot a pleasant smile towards the woman getting out of the lift who shot them a startled look.  He had a bad feeling the only thing preventing them being stopped was Sherlock’s imperious demeanour and that wasn’t exactly full proof. 

“Of course I do John, stop worrying,” Sherlock dismissed him with a wave while hitting the button for the 34th floor.  John was about to ask how he knew where he was going but it was a pointless endeavour.  He resigned himself to the unexpected, letting Sherlock know by heaving a massive sigh.  Retaliating, Sherlock poked him in the ribs with an elbow, smiling slightly.  Dammit, he knew John couldn’t resist that shy smile. 

That didn’t stop his gut from clenching when the lift doors dinged and opened.  It opened out onto a waiting room with an empty secretary desk along the left side wall and some comfy chairs alongside the other, creating a runway up to the door.  The door itself looked out of place, oak wood contrasting the cream and lilacs of the room.  It looked imposing and ominous and it reminded him of-

“Is this Mycroft’s office?”

Sherlock chuckled a dark laugh as he paced forward.  “No.”

“Someone trying to imitate him then?”

“Not trying to imitate no.  This?  This is the original.”  He emphasised his words by taping on the engraved name plate affixed to the the door.  John read it with sinking horror. 

 _W.S.S.Holmes_. 

“Sherlock is that-?”

“The man I’m named after John.  The one I don’t mention ever.  You noticed but you never pressed me on it.  Now, you have a choice.  You can either go in there with me and meet him or stay out here and remain blissfully unaware of the scum that he is.”  Sherlock’s lips curled as he spat out the words.

“If you go, I’ll follow.”  To John it really was that simple.  Even when he was angry he wouldn’t have let Sherlock voluntarily walk into danger on his own.  He still cared for the idiot after all. 

“Well then,” Sherlock said, drawing himself up, “Here. We. Go.”

With that, he twisted the handle and threw open the door. 

 

You could tell the two were related.  In fact, John felt an odd sense that the elder Holmes was like looking into Sherlock’s future.  Both raven haired, both with keen, steel eyes, both looking at each other with polite curiosity. 

“William, do take a seat” Mr Holmes’ voice was pleasant, as if they’d simply stopped by for lunch. 

“I go by Sherlock now Father,” was the reply as he sprawled, “not that you would now,” he muttered under his breath.

“You always were an unconventional one.  And you are?” John tried not to flinch as attention turned to him. 

“John,” he stuttered out, holding his hand out on instinct.  Mr Holmes’ hand was cold.  His tight smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Lovely to make your acquaintance.  Now what brings you both here?”

“The name Jacob ring any bells?” Sherlock asked. 

“No, should it?” Mr Holmes frowned slightly, a picture perfect look of mild curiosity. 

“You should.  Your secretary just hospitalised him.” Sherlock was using his “casual” voice.  John hated the “casual” voice.  It always ended badly. 

“What?”

“Oh there’s no need to sound quite so scandalised,” Sherlock scoffed.  “Your billion-pound business was under threat from a teenager with nothing more than a computer and some dodgy looking friends, of course you needed to neutralise the threat.  That’s why you messed up his flat, to scare him off, easy, efficient, but it wasn’t enough for your dear secretary Matthew.  Matthew, who idolises you to the point that your picture is on his desk, had finally got his bright idea. The idea that would make you _adore_ him, as much as he adores you.  He’d take away the threat altogether.  Luckily for him he failed but that does rather leave you in a compromising situation.”

Mr Holmes had sat very patiently through Sherlock’s speech but the mocking look in his eyes suggested he was listening to a child throwing a tantrum.  His reply, “Oh does it?” an indulgence. 

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said smugly. 

“Pray do tell how.  You say it like a disgraced secretary is a going to be a ground-breaking revelation.” 

“Oh I’m not using the secretary.  He’s already in police custody. Forgot about the CCTV you see and I know someone who has access to all the feeds so it was child's play in the end. Also, a tip for next time, at least get someone who won't run to their mother's house at the first sign of trouble. No, what I’m using is the destruction of a community centre in the heart of the town, several local politicians with an election to win, teenagers that can influence millions in less than 140 characters and the fact that you abandoned your entire family when your youngest son was 6.” 

As much as John hated “casual”, he hated silence more.  They were two predators sizing each other up and the only thing protecting Sherlock from his own recklessness was John.  John, who could do nothing but sit there and wait it out while the ball was in that bastard’s court.  A bastard who was looking decidedly unimpressed. 

Maybe there was something he could do. 

His magic had been severely weakened and he rarely used it anymore, getting frustrated when he hit his limit.  On top of that emotional manipulation was not his greatest skill.  He hadn’t bothered to learn much as his own morality stopped him but he had the basic knowledge and he had to try at least.  Anything that might help his Sherlock. 

He took a deep breath and reached out.  Aura colours were always a bit temperamental and the tension in the room was an overwhelming navy layering everything.  He ignored the tumult of Sherlock’s emotions next to him too with another breath.  Mr Holmes was his focus.  His disapproval was clear, as was his doubt over Sherlock’s play.  Other subtler emotions were a mess and John cursed his lack of power.  He couldn’t think about that too long however.  Change what he could; hope that it would be enough.  Emotional changes were difficult as it had to be done without the subject being aware of being changed.  First he began slowly , so slowly, drawing back the scepticism.  However, the doubt had to be replaced with something so he began talking. 

“You should listen to him you know.”  Two sets of eyes snapped to his face but there was only one he could concentrate on.

“And why’s that?”

“Sherlock Holmes stops for no man,” he said with a little smile as his plan began to work, curiosity filling the gaps. “Not even his own father.” 

“I will not be bullied by two teenagers.  What do you want anyway?”

Now just to plant a seed of self-doubt.  John felt his palms sweating as he concentrated, felt the magic shake as it kept a tenuous hold. 

“For you to stop your designs on the community centre for a start.  If you try anything like this again, anywhere, and I will find out, I’m more than willing to offer the same ultimatum.” 

At Sherlock’s words, John saw the outcome play out in the elder Holmes’ emotions and let out a breath of relief. 

“Fine.

Just as John allowed the thinned magic to slip through his fingers he caught the tail-end of Sherlock’s disbelief.  Outwardly Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s only a small project Sherlock, it’s not like it’s a disaster,” Mr Holmes waved a hand, so reminiscent of a Mycroft dismissal. 

And in true Sherlock fashion, the younger Holmes simply nodded, swept himself upright in his stupid coat, paused long enough for John to get to his feet and strode out the room.

John went to follow, before he turned, not being able to help himself. 

“He’s happy.” Mr Holmes looked up at him.  “Just if you care.  Because you should.  You really, really should because you know what, you should see him sometimes.  He’s brilliant, more intelligent than anyone I’ve ever met and what makes him great is that behind all that he does care.  He’s stunning and not being in his life is one of the biggest mistakes you’ve ever made.”  With that parting remark John stormed out the room, not even waiting for a reaction because really, what did it matter what that idiot thought, and as he made his dramatic exit, he nearly ran into Sherlock who was hanging around outside the door. 

Without a word Sherlock walked towards the lifts and John wondered if he’d heard what he’d told the elder Holmes. 

They were silent on the way out of the building and John’s mind had wondered onto a shower and some breakfast when he was suddenly enveloped in limbs.  He brought up his arms automatically, palms flat on Sherlock’s back. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered in his ear, refusing to let John move back and see his face.  "For what you said and I know you did something extra, I know it and just-." 

John chuckled.  “You big softie,” he said, giving Sherlock a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh shut up,” Sherlock turned and John pretended he didn’t see him scrubbing away a tear as he flagged down a taxi, returning to his natural poise and coolness. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” John grinned as Sherlock stuck his tongue. 

“I really have no idea why I love you,” Sherlock sighed after he’d asked the cab to return them to Baker Street. 

“I don’t either sometimes.  But you’re stuck with me now.” 

Sherlock turned to him, suddenly serious. 

“John, everything you said to my father, only you see that.  Everyone else always focuses on my faults, it’s in their nature too but you, you make me stronger.  Better than that you make me happy.”

John couldn’t think of an appropriate response and so reached over and pressed their lips together, hoping the simple kiss would express his gratitude.  Sherlock moved to deepen in and made an annoyed huff when John pulled back.

“It’s all well and good that we are declaring our undying love but you’re still going to have to brush your teeth before kissing me.”

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh.  “What stupid pedestrian rules you make John.”

“Only for you my love, only ever for you.”  

**Author's Note:**

> So, hello again. Over 3 months ago I promised there would be a proper sequel to If You Go Into the Woods and now, finally, here is is. Apologise to those who my have been waiting but real life kept getting in the way, as it might do again so updates may be slightly random but I promise this will be finished, come hell or high water. Thank you so much for reading and, as ever, helpful comments and kudos are appreciated, cherished and make me happy every time I see them, as are suggestions and questions. Follow my tumblr (consultinghound.tumblr.com) for more updates on my progress with this (mainly frustrated yelling and procrastination). CH out. *runs to finish second chapter*


End file.
